Clandestine
by Charis M
Summary: “'I want this,' she says, as much to reassure herself as him.”  This is a different dance, in a world that cannot touch what is.  Followup to Reality.


**Clandestine**  
by Charis

_Disclaimer: Battlestar Galactica and all associated characters belong to people who are not me. I'm just borrowing._

_Notes: Follow-up to "Reality", because the shoulder devils insisted; I think if this as alternate-universe, though. This is the closest I expect to get to writing smut. Especially Dee's fault, because Heart's "Secret" would not get out of my head. I will blame the fact that I wrote this entirely on outside pressure, and wash my hands of this whole affair._

Somewhere between Here and There, she changes her mind. Some excuse is made that she forgets the instant it leaves her lips, knowing only that it provides a reason for her to be letting him escort her through the almost-deserted corridors of the _Galactica_ towards his quarters. Anticipation and inevitability tangle together: this has been building for days, and she's so tired of fighting it. Scandal be damned.

Only she can't quite think of it that way - can't because it _does_ matter, because she has to think about politics and image and rumour, but it's alright tonight; she trusts her security implicitly, and their discretion as well, and tonight of all nights there's no-one likely to come across the Commander and the President walking perhaps a little too closely down the corridor. There's no one to see, but she manages to retain some small bit of distance as she steps into his quarters. He closes and seals the door behind them while she stands just inside, hands fisted at her sides, suddenly uncertain. What if -

What if? What if once only makes things worse; what if this makes their professional interactions impossible? What if, lords of Kobol forbid, this is more than simply physical?

"Laura?"

The sound of her name is tentative, as if he, too, is unsure, if only of whether he can use it. She reclaims control of her muscles, turns to him, forces herself to smile and hopes it doesn't look too nervous.

"I want this," she says, as much to reassure herself as him. One hand rests on his shoulder, like dancing, but the other does not find his, and this is closer than they could ever be in public, dancing or not. Her fingers curl at the nape of his neck; he tips his head down slightly, unresisting, and his lips meet hers.

She's not sure what she expected. It's been a while since she kissed a man; politics is not conducive to relationships, improper or otherwise. Certainly not this, slow and almost hesitant and bringing every nerve to life, not when she had thought that perhaps her body past ever feeling such things again. He is being the gentleman still (_'Now isn't the time, damn it!'_ she thinks, and wants to laugh), so she takes the initiative. For a moment the restraint is still there, but then he kisses her back, open mouth, tongue, teeth nipping briefly at her lip. She shudders in spite of herself, eyes half-lidding.

He pulls back, and she opens her eyes again to find him watching her intently. His hands are large, warm, one splayed across the small of her back; the other hovers a moment before he traces the lines of her face, oddly gentle. "Laura," he says again, a thousand questions in that gruff tone.

There are no answers she can give him - not now, maybe not ever. She takes his hand in hers, draws it to the top button of her jacket. "Please."

For another eternity, he only looks at her, but the word seems to have released something in him, and when he draws her back, the kiss is everything and nothing like the first one. Fire wakes, uncoils in the pit of her stomach. Her skin feels suddenly hypersensitive, too taut. Was it ever like this? She can't remember now, can't even think except to be dizzily aware of his touch as his fingers brush her skin as he undoes buttons. Some far-distant portion of herself is aware of the fact he is being careful with her clothes, and is grateful - after all, she doesn't exactly have any to spare - but then the jacket is open and discarded, blouse following suit, and the sudden worry (_'I have cancer,'_ her rational brain says) vanishes at the slide of palm against curved flesh. Her eyes close as a ragged breath hitches in.

"Good?" he murmurs, and his voice seems to caress as surely as his hands. They have been reduced to a conversation of single words and inarticulate sounds, the latter entirely on her part; she realises suddenly how unfair that is, but her fingers fumble at the hidden clasps of his jacket, unable to make them part. He chuckles and pulls back, removes it; her hands tangle with his as they rid him of the shirts beneath it together.

"Better," she retorts, lightly running her fingernails down his chest; it is his turn now to shudder, and she revels in the small, incoherent gasp she wins from him. This is a power entirely different from what she usually wields, and it's heady to know that he wants her, even when there are so many other women around, younger and more beautiful - even if it's just a game of power.

Somehow they find the bed, leaving a trail of the rest of their clothing along the way. His mouth is hard against hers now, the kisses deep and heated as his lips slant over hers over and over again, as his hands explore her. Gentleness is past, and she's glad, because if he decided to be a gentleman now, she just might kill him. She's beyond thinking, beyond caring, lost in the fire she had thought never to feel again - lost in sensation, her leg hooked over his hip, his hands on her breasts, her belly, parting her thighs, and she feels him draw back to ask a question, but she twists her fingers through his hair and pulls his mouth back to hers as she opens to him, draws him in.

Touch, taste, sound, smell - four senses are almost too many, and she squeezes her eyes shut. Her reality tightens, narrows to this chaos of feelings: he moves within her, and with him the world moves, and she arches and moans and meets him, push and pull, give and take and give again, as they strain together in the silence of the night, slick and heated and so _right_, even when it's nothing but wrong -

She is unprepared for the fierceness of her orgasm; it leaves her drained in a way she can't remember having felt in years, had never thought to feel again. Dimly, she is aware of him above her, his own shudders mingling with her own, his hoarse cry muffled against her shoulder. Her face is damp, but she is not sure when the tears came, or why, or - when he shifts his weight off her and kisses her again, gently this time - if they are hers or his.

"Stay?"

She shouldn't; she knows that, but she's tired now, lazy and replete, and she lets him draw her up against his side. It's a bad idea, but she can't remember the litany of reasons why.

"For a little while," she murmurs, tucking an arm across his chest. It's just the false intimacy that comes after sex.

She drifts off to the sound of his breathing.

_- finis -_


End file.
